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6/17/2025, 1:49:14 PM
>>6259840
You stand over the bed upon which rests the mangled pile of sinew that holds Simo with lungs that struggle to breathe and a heart that toils to beat. Machines are on standby to do these things for him should they tire of their work.
The senators of Rome would have no qualms ending someone's life for a fresh batch of organs to supplant their own. In their long years reaching up to one hundred and fifty, they've long since abandoned morality. They think they can slip free for Orcus or Tartarus or whatever they call it. As sisyphean an effort that might be, unlike you, they would have the freedom of movement to even try. Killing one of Suomi faith is leveling an inescapable damnation, an eternity paralyzed in ice.
So easily they would have replaced all of Simo's innards with some overpopulant and have moved on.
But you are not them.
And you hate this puppet that you are.
You bend your fingers. Sticks of calcium and collagen rotate upon cartilage hinges, bound by knots and strings of fibrous muscle, wired with veins and shoved into a sack of skin. Made to dance by electric pulses down the nerves, the strings your soul pulls to make this puppet jitter about the stage.
This crumbling temple you misfortunately call your self has been a malfunctioning prison of flesh since the day you were born. One of lesser moral fiber would have replaced all the flawed parts like some car by now. You don't have to be sterile. You could have replaced everything during any of your years with the mountains of biomat you have provided for others; five bodies more, skim some off the top. This could have been fixed.
But that would turn a blind eye to the true problem. That you must steal life to live yours as Zephyraut had the gall to say aloud is merely a symptom.
Blame the gods for this flawed flesh of yours all you like, but blame is a hollow insult spat into the wind. A wasted breath of precious, precious life.
You stand over the bed upon which rests the mangled pile of sinew that holds Simo with lungs that struggle to breathe and a heart that toils to beat. Machines are on standby to do these things for him should they tire of their work.
The senators of Rome would have no qualms ending someone's life for a fresh batch of organs to supplant their own. In their long years reaching up to one hundred and fifty, they've long since abandoned morality. They think they can slip free for Orcus or Tartarus or whatever they call it. As sisyphean an effort that might be, unlike you, they would have the freedom of movement to even try. Killing one of Suomi faith is leveling an inescapable damnation, an eternity paralyzed in ice.
So easily they would have replaced all of Simo's innards with some overpopulant and have moved on.
But you are not them.
And you hate this puppet that you are.
You bend your fingers. Sticks of calcium and collagen rotate upon cartilage hinges, bound by knots and strings of fibrous muscle, wired with veins and shoved into a sack of skin. Made to dance by electric pulses down the nerves, the strings your soul pulls to make this puppet jitter about the stage.
This crumbling temple you misfortunately call your self has been a malfunctioning prison of flesh since the day you were born. One of lesser moral fiber would have replaced all the flawed parts like some car by now. You don't have to be sterile. You could have replaced everything during any of your years with the mountains of biomat you have provided for others; five bodies more, skim some off the top. This could have been fixed.
But that would turn a blind eye to the true problem. That you must steal life to live yours as Zephyraut had the gall to say aloud is merely a symptom.
Blame the gods for this flawed flesh of yours all you like, but blame is a hollow insult spat into the wind. A wasted breath of precious, precious life.
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